


If I Ever Die Without You

by rayscribbs



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Canon, Emotional Roller Coaster, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-10
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-16 12:28:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29949984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rayscribbs/pseuds/rayscribbs
Summary: Osamu's grief was persistent and powerful. The loss of a twin, they said, was like emotionally dying alongside them. Everybody saw it, most of all Omi, who used the care of his late boyfriend's brother to push his own mourning aside. A story about loss and family and love, two people struggle to navigate this new, colder world by finding any remaining memory of Atsumu Miya in each other, but will it be enough?
Comments: 1
Kudos: 7





	1. The Morning After

**Author's Note:**

> The topic of grief is pretty close to my heart and something I find a lot of comfort in writing about. Anyone who's every lost someone suddenly like this can understand how hard it is to move forward, how you can't help but feel stuck where you are.
> 
> This story is going to be pretty raw and unforgiving. The conversation around death and the grieving process will be explicit, though it's not my intention to sensationalize these kinds of things. A lot of the thoughts and actions of the characters are taken from personal experiences, so if you disagree with my depictions, that's fine, but just stop reading.
> 
> Also the POV is going to change from chapter to chapter between Osamu and Omi but it'll be clearly marked which is which.

[Osamu POV]

Omi was talking to me but I couldn’t understand him. I couldn’t reply. My mind was completely blank. The only thing I could think about was how loud Shoyo’s crying was, even muffled in Bokuto’s chest. Come to think of it, everyone was crying. Everyone but me, anyway.

I watched Omi’s index finger tap the paperwork on the counter in front of me, each time signalling where I had to scribble my name. Some of the forms were from the hospital, some were from the funeral home—I didn’t know which was which. Omi said he read all of them already. The nurse was talking to us about next steps, about organ donation and death certificates and lawyer referral services. At one point, Bokuto shouted something across the room and she shut right up.

By the time we left the hospital, the sun was up. How did I get here? I didn’t have my car fob or my wallet, so I didn’t drive, I didn’t take the bus. I must have run. I had fresh blisters on my ankles too, because I didn’t stop to put socks on.

Bokuto said something about taking Shoyo home. Shoyo kept saying he was sorry to me, but I didn’t know what for. Everyone kept saying sorry to me.

Omi and I walked back to the apartment, but ended up sitting on the curb for a while. It must have been at least an hour. The sun rose without you and I didn’t say a word. I couldn’t bring myself to go back inside, not yet.

My entire body felt heavy and I was sweating a lot, but I refused to take off my jacket, because once I took it off, I would eventually have to hang it up in the hall closet. I would have to sift through the coats that would never be used again in search for a spare hanger, and I didn’t think I could bare that.

That was when I realized it wasn’t just the coats. Nothing was ever going to be the same. I would have to call the dentist and cancel your appointment next week. What was I going to do with your phone? Did I know your password? Did you have it written down somewhere? My chest felt tight, my throat too.

I could hear Omi quietly sniffling next to me behind his mask. Since I showed up at the hospital, he had been the most composed of your teammates. It happened at practice. I didn’t ask, but from what I gathered, it made sense that Omi would be the one to spring into action. Now that the night was over, I guessed his shock had finally worn off.

I didn’t think my shock would ever wear off. I felt frozen in time, stuck in a never-ending loop of complicated medical jargon and the bitter taste of antiseptic. You collapsed, they said. Sometimes that just happens. You were healthy, you did’t smoke or drink, you ate well, and loved your life, and yet none of that was enough. You did everything right, but none of that was enough.

They said I should get some tests done, “whenever I felt up to it.” A lot of the time when these things happen, there’s some underlying genetic cause—especially for someone so young. Did I have any family I could get a medical history from? Probably not. They were all either dead or estranged now. It never bothered me much before, since we always had each other, but now…

Every movement I made happened without my permission. My brain was disconnected from the rest of my body. I felt just a little bit foggy, just a little bit wrong. I stood up first, and fished my house key out of my pocket.

“C’mon,” I said to Omi, who couldn’t look at me. “I’ll make ya something to eat.”

I was going through the motions; walking into the building, pressing the elevator button, watching the light above the door slowly climb to the sixth floor. I padded down the hall just like I had done a thousand times before, and turned the key without exerting any more energy than usual, but my autopilot finally switched off when I finally reached for the doorknob. It wouldn’t turn, or I couldn’t turn it.

“Let me.” Omi brushed my hand out of the way to open the door, and while I just stood there, knees locked, eyes low, he slipped inside. I heard the sound of rustling, then a door closing in the distance. I didn’t need to see it to know exactly what door it was. When he reappeared in front of me, his mask was off, but I couldn’t connect his face to my memory. “You can come in now.”

I did. It felt strange, taking my shoes off. I didn’t trip over your sneakers the way I had when I left the night before. Omi must have put them away. I walked into the kitchen to begin preparing our meal. I kept my jacket on.

“What are you making?”

“Breakfast.” The sound that came from my mouth didn’t sound like my voice. It didn’t sound like yours either, but I couldn't really remember your voice. There hasn’t been a single world that’s left my lips since that’s felt quite right.

I would try to make oyakodon that day, and every other day for the next few weeks, though it didn’t take long for me to hate the flavour. I’d have to smother it in hot sauce just to choke it down, to mask that sweetness you loved so much. I felt my phone vibrating in my pocket. It could have been anyone. Almost. I didn’t check. Instead, I just stared into the pan, watching the onions and chicken cook together in the bubbling stock.

Last night, we fought. It wasn’t about anything important. Looking over at the pile of dishes in the sink, I think you ate the last of our Saturday night takeout. I didn’t really care, but then you said something like “You know I’m always first ‘Samu—ya shouldn’t be surprised I ate ‘em,” and I threw a book at your head. There was still a dent in the wall from where you ducked. Why did you always have to be the first at everything? If it could have happened to anyone, why couldn’t it have happened to me? I’ll never stop feeling guilty for being alive.

What I did next…I don’t know why I did it. I was being controlled my something else, a slave to some invisible force that curled my fingers around the handle of the pan and whipped it across the living room with all my strength. Boiling broth and onions and chicken covered everything—the couch, the floor, the walls—and the clattering of the metal pan hitting the floor went on forever. It only took about two seconds for me to reach for the kitchen towel and begin cleaning up though. I worked silently and diligently, picking up every stray piece of undercooked, piping hot food to be thrown away.

“Osamu…” I forgot Omi was there, sitting on the other side of the kitchen. I didn’t reply. My focus was on erasing every last shred of evidence of my sudden outburst.

Once the bulk of it was done, I threw away the wasted food, tossed the dirty pan carelessly into the already full sink, and sifted through the fresh ingredients in the fridge to start again. The second time, the food made it into the bowl, but it wasn’t long before I sent it flying into the same direction as before. This time, the bowl shattered upon impact, though the carefully packed rice mostly kept its shape. You would have found that funny, I think.

“Osamu,” Omi called out to me again. I could hear his footsteps getting closer as he approached me from behind, but still flinched at the feeling of his fingers curling around the back of my collar. “You’re probably boiling. Take your jacket off.”

“No. I’m keeping it on,” I snapped, and jerked my shoulder away from him. Opening the drawer to the left of the oven, I pulled out a fresh kitchen towel to clean up my new mess. Crouching over the more concentrated pile of glass and food, I carefully picked up each grain of rice, each ceramic fragment, then threw them away and returned to the fridge to begin one more time.


	2. The Night Before

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recounting the last MSBY practice where Atsumu collapses from the perspective of Omi.

[Omi POV]

It was a late night practice. Even in the middle of September, you were complaining that it was too hot. You were always hot though, always sweaty and comfortable in anything more than your birthday suit. Nothing was out of the ordinary. Bokuto propped the gym doors open while you downed an entire bottle of water, then practice began.

Ninety minutes in, nothing was out of the ordinary. An hour later, all of us were tired. All of us except for Shoyo, who could have stayed all night if I let him. You and Bokuto always met our little #21's enthusiasm with your own, so after some nagging, I agreed to stay one more hour. The rest of the team had gone now, leaving the four of us alone. When had I become such a pushover? It was obviously because of you.

It hadn’t been long since we all started playing together for MSBY. You and Shoyo still had a lot of work to do on your minus tempo attack. The timing was decent, but you weren’t setting it high enough. Since the last time you played together, Shoyo’s vertical had improved by almost six centimetres. You were getting frustrated, but that frustration always drove you to work harder, to keep going. You weren’t a quitter. It was one of the things I loved about you. Even amid such intense concentration, you were teasing me. 

Bokuto and I were receiving on the other side of the court, and even with the sloppy attacks, we weren’t returning as many of the balls as we should have been. It made sense that we were tired. We were four hours into a practice that should have only lasted two—but that was never a good enough excuse for you.

I sent the next ball over. It had the right height and spin for a perfect set. You took off into the air, arms up, fingers at the ready, and set it to where Shoyo’s hand was already swinging down. All of us were watching him taking him off, and gawked at the sight of him just hanging in the air. I don’t think anyone ever got used to that sight. The sound of the ball hitting the back corner echoed through the empty gym. Bokuto hooted out with excitement that you finally nailed the difficult combination, praising Shoyo for his line shot. Shoyo’s smile was stretched so far it looked like it hurt, but when he spun around to high five you, it dropped.

There you were, lying on your side, unmoving. 

Shoyo called your name. No answer. 

Bokuto called your name. No answer.

“He’s just messing with us,” I called out from across the court, my expression twisted up in an annoyed frown. I was too tired for these games.

“He’s not getting up!” Shoyo returned, his tone breathless and shaky. He was crouched down in front of your face now, rocking you by your shoulder. You were unresponsive.

After ducking under the net and approaching your body from behind, I nudged you in the back with my foot. “Get up, Miya.”

Nothing.

I nudged you again. “Get up, Miya. This isn’t funny.”

After a play like that, you should have been panting like Shoyo, but you were still. This time, I reeled my leg back and kicked you square between the shoulder blades. I did it before once at training camp when you refused to get up for morning practice all those years ago; you told me it was worst pain you’d ever felt. You rolled over onto your stomach, and your head turned to the side. Your eyes were low but they were open, your lips parted just a little.

“Atsumu, Get up! I’m serious now, you stupid prick! Get your ass up!”

Someone was crying. I think it was Shoyo. He was sitting by your face, shaking you by the shoulders still. Bokuto was frozen on the other side of the net. He didn’t say a word. I wanted to kick you again. I wanted to kick you hard enough to wake you up, but my body wouldn’t move. My body knew before my brain did that it would be no use.

“Bokuto.” I was quieter now, my words barely above a whisper. He definitely didn’t hear me from so far away. All I could do was stand there, though, and stare at you. “Bokuto!”

“What do we do?” He replied. He didn’t come any closer. He was just as scared as we were.

“We have to call 119.”

“We have to call 119,” he parroted, but I couldn’t be sure if he was actually listening.

“Bokuto.”

“We have to call 119.”

“Bokuto!” I snapped my head around just in time to watch him jump back to attention. “Go get your phone and call 119 now.”

“We have to call 119,” he repeated once more before finally spinning on his heels to dash off to the side of the court where our gym bags lined the walls. “We have to call 119.”

Those words filled the gym so many times I could no longer distinguish the originals from their echo.

“Omi…” Shoyo sputtered out. He was lying in front of you now, grasping at your chin, cupping your cheeks. “What do we—“

“His tongue,” I immediately responded. My brain flipped through every first aid course and seminar I had taken and finally landed on some course of action. It’s funny—when you’re in the middle of all that training, it’s really boring. It’s hard to take seriously because you can’t imagine a situation where you might actually have to use it.

“His tongue…?”

“When your muscles relax, your tongue blocks your airway. We have to turn him over.”

This was an out of body experience if there ever was one. You would have laughed at me for thinking so dramatically, but I wasn’t moving on my own. I watched my body step towards you and roll you onto your back. I couldn’t look at your face for longer than a few seconds at a time, the way your eyes were dull, not really focusing anywhere. Your mouth looked that way too. You were always wearing that stupid, smug expression, but in that moment it was listless.

I remember crouching down by your head and tilting it back. I wanted to convince myself you were breathing. I tried to remember what your breathing sounded like. I wanted to superimpose it onto your current self, but even I wasn’t that foolish.

“Next, you have to start chest compression.” I was talking to myself. I didn’t care if Shoyo was listening. I suspected he wasn’t. The fingers on my left hand slipped between the spaces on my right and I pressed my hands against your chest. It felt familiar, but foreign at the same time. It felt like someone else’s chest, someone colder. “You have to keep the blood pumping,” I muttered quietly. I must have said that a thousand times. My pace was steady. I never stopped. My arms were starting to cramp, but I couldn’t stop, even for a second. “Get up, Miya! Get up! God, you’re so fucking selfish!”

“Stop yelling at him!” Shoyo screamed back at me.

“He always fucking does this!” I must have been crying because my vision was starting to get blurry, although I don’t remember crying. My tears dripped onto your shirt, mixing with your sweat and disappearing into the damp fabric as if they never existed to begin with. “He only takes it seriously when it suits him. Atsumu Miya, you selfish bastard! I hate you!”

“Omi! Stop!”

“No! I can’t!” My shoulders were sore, but my hands kept beating against your chest. Your body jerked under the force ever time, but never moved on its own. “I’m not stopping!”

I think this was around the time the paramedics came. There were three of them, maybe four. I heard Bokuto try and pull Shoyo away, then someone reached for me but I wouldn’t move. I knew what happened next. Protocol was to perform CPR for twenty minutes before ceasing resuscitation. They would give up after twenty minutes and that would be it. I wouldn’t give up though.

“Son, you need to let us work.”

“You can’t take him!” I think I screamed, but I didn’t recognize the hoarse, trembling voice. It all comes back in bits and pieces, like trying to remember a movie you haven’t seen in years. “Miya, you stupid, selfish, piss-haired…ugly, stupid bastard! Get up!”

You would have laughed at my unimaginative insults. I was never any good at cursing.

They had to pull me off you. The second my hands left your body, I started counting in my head. Twenty minutes was twelve hundred seconds. 

I counted to twelve hundred.

You didn’t even fight. You didn’t even try. Nothing was out of the ordinary, then your heart just stopped and that was that.


End file.
